


Early Days

by Susan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1273876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Susan/pseuds/Susan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead. How does John begin to accept that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Early Days

“He’s dead,” John says to Greg Lestrade at the Yard later. His voice, not quite controlled, still sounds surprised. He says it again, more to himself this time, forming the words slowly, changing intonation, like an actor going over his lines. There are new tenses, new definitions to learn. 

Greg brings him something in a paper cup, a bottle has been found in someone’s drawer. He drinks and takes a deep breath and another and finds that these deep breaths are really just withheld sobs. 

“I’m taking you home,” Greg says and, with one hand in the small of his back, leads him outside and into his car. John is silent. Greg drives with one hand on the steering wheel, one arm stretched out across the back of the seat so that his fingers rest lightly on John’s shoulder. 

“Go home,” John says when they pull up in front of 221B. “Please.”

There are protests, of course. Negotiations follow. He promises to call Greg in the morning, to call him if he needs anything, to call him if he changes his mind. He’ll promise anything to be left alone, to shake off the weight of Greg’s grief. He has no room for anyone’s sadness but his own. Sherlock’s final act has made him selfish. 

He pulls himself slowly out of the car, heads toward his door, then stops and crosses back to the driver’s side. Lets out a long, slow breath. He places both hands on the roof and leans down and into the open window. “I’ll call you in the morning. I promise.” 

As he turns, Greg reaches out and pulls him back by his sleeve. “He loved you, you know. That was never a lie.” 

Lies 10, Truth 1. Not even close, he wants to answer. Instead, he offers a slow half shrug and walks away. 

The top door is open, the flat dark. His hand hovers over the switch for a moment, but he leaves the lights off – he can’t bear to see his own face in the mirror just yet. There's enough light from the street to find the half-empty bottle on the top shelf of the bookcase and to rinse a glass. He fills it too full, too quickly and the dark liquid leaves a small puddle on the counter when he lifts the glass to drink. He carries the bottle and glass to his chair and pours another. And another. The whiskey dulls the grief, but feeds the anger. He wants him back. He wants the truth. All of it. He wants a chance to point a finger, to call him a liar, to beg him to change his mind. 

He wants a chance to forgive him. 

The bottle is empty too soon. In the bedroom, he imagines for a minute that he'll be able to sleep, that fatigue will win out over grief and regret and anger. But the bed is too large, the silence too astounding. 

He pulls his clothes back on, grabs his jacket, and makes his way unsteadily down the stairs. He’ll go for a walk, he thinks, sit on a bench and wait for this night to end. And then he’ll find a way to believe it. To make adjustments. But not yet, and not here.

 

When he opens the door, Greg is leaning against the car, hands in his pockets, collar turned up against the cool night air. He offers John a shy smile, a small lift of his shoulders. 

“You came back.” John says. 

“Never left.” 

Anger flares, replaced quickly by gratitude. “I’m going for a walk. Come if you like.” 

Greg falls in beside him. “John, I – ” His voice is thick and he wipes the back of his hand quickly across his eyes.

“You say his name and I’ll shoot you,” John warns. He’s drunk enough to mean it.

 

The sky is barely pink when they turn back on Baker Street – carrying two takeaway coffees and sticky buns in paper bags. 

“Go home, Greg.” John says when they reach the car. “I’m fine.” His second lie of the day. The first was agreeing that the sticky buns were a good idea. 

“If you’re sure – ” 

“I’m sure.”

John waits until Greg pulls away, starts to wave and pulls back his hand, feeling foolish. He drops the paper bag into the trash bin on the street, then slowly climbs the stairs to the empty flat.


End file.
